


billiards boy

by determinisms (violentredux)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Gen, Non-Linear Narrative, Vaguely Post-Canon, kunimi uses questionable coping mechanisms to deal with his emotions, the trials and tribulations of getting wine-drunk with the object of your affections
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:00:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29213058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violentredux/pseuds/determinisms
Summary: kunimi, billboards, and a bottle of pinot noir
Relationships: Kageyama Tobio/Kunimi Akira
Comments: 3
Kudos: 19





	billiards boy

**Author's Note:**

> content warning:
> 
> alcohol use

Akira sees the billboard long before the street ends, the nice-looking lady with her legs cut into a V-shape with lace stockings pulled up to her thighs with a slip dress that barely covered her chest. There’s a phone number scrawled at the bottom of the board that he scribbles into a small notepad and remembers for a grand total of five seconds before forgetting, and lights around it that flash jerkily in a way that feels like they were built to do so. 

His therapist tells him to do this; write down small things that make him smile in the notepad she had slid over to him when he told her he didn’t have a notebook in his apartment. He fills it with numbers he finds on billboards like these and calls them during their sessions just to see the cracks in her composure when sultry voices pick up.

It had been Kindaichi who suggested he see her in the first place, which he had agreed to doing if only to appease him. If only to say, “fuck you, I’m perfectly fine actually and don’t need to see a therapist,” when she would inevitably give up on him. 

The breeze picks up around him. He shivers and walks faster.

[]

There had been a drunken conversation, or as close to a conversation as verbal communication between two shitfaced people could get, back in his third year of university. 

“I’like tits. Sure I like tits.”

“Mmm.”

“Actually. Actually, no—no. Actually, I don’t—I don’ think I like tits all that much.”

“Mmm. Yeah.”

“Yeah? Say, ‘kira, do you—I mean we haven’t really—”

“Mmm. I like. I like blue eyes.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmm. Black—”

Akira throws up over the side of the couch before he can finish, a disappointing shade of midnight snacks just missing the bucket he had set up in preparation for this. Kindaichi groans like he’s the one at fault instead of Akira. The conversation ends there. 

[]

Tokyo Tower is surrounded by more tourists than he remembers there being the last time he visited. He sees a group of foreigners crowded together, asking pedestrians to take their picture in broken Japanese. He gets up close, closer until the top of the tower disappears into the clouds, the foundational legs spread out in front of him. He shuts his eyes, breathes in the blue sky, lets the industrial smell permeate. There’s a couple next to him whispering to each other in slurred, soft voices, syllables syrupy and sweet. It makes him feel warm inside. 

It isn’t until they leave that he realizes they were speaking Italian.

[]

“Stop moping.”

Akira groans into his pillow. He had left the front door unlocked out of some misshapen hope, didn’t expect Kindaichi to be the one to take advantage of his vulnerability. It’s not like—like he wanted—

“‘m not moping.”

Kindaichi clicks his tongue. Like he knows something Akira doesn’t. Like he’s found something that Akira could never find for himself.

“You poor thing.”

[]

It’s not like Oikawa would mind that much if he drank through his entire mini-fridge of tiny vodka bottles, Akira reasons. And even if he would, he’s way too preoccupied with Iwaizumi-san’s arms anyway. Akira winces as he knocks back another bottle. Winces again as someone bumps into him, laughs and apologizes. 

He twists the red bottle cap between his fingers. One of the crimps, sharper than the others, catches onto his finger. Drags. His finger starts bleeding in the small Tokyo hotel room.

[]

  
  


A cheap bottle of wine is passed between them, cherry red dripping down their lips from the rushed swigs each of them takes. 

Akira likes the feeling of it all—likes the feeling of getting wine-drunk on 600 yen supermarket Pinot Noir that tastes less like red wine and more like fruit juice, the fleeting warmth and fizzy happiness, the careless whispers of unadulterated pleasure. Maybe that’s why it’s only wine when they’re together. 

Tobio tugs a little too hard the next time he reaches for the bottle, and Akira follows the pull, laughing at the way his body feels, all loose and bubbly. Too late, he realizes how close they are—forearms aligned, faces threatening to do the same. Akira swallows the last of the wine in his mouth. 

“You’re bleeding,” Tobio blurts.

Akira looks down where his hand is gripping the neck of the bottle. Indeed, there seems to be some sort of red liquid trickling down the side of his finger. 

“That’s just the wine.” 

Tobio hums. He carefully peels Akira’s hand from the bottle, finger by finger, tugs it towards his face. Licks up the side of Akira’s middle finger before swallowing it down, tongue curling around the base before pulling off entirely. Akira thinks he’s gonna pass out. 

“Mm. Nope, definitely bleeding.” Tobio giggles. He teeters a little and collapses into Akira’s neck. There’s a huff and then damp mouthing down his neck. Akira almost laughs at the incredulity of it all—Japan’s National Setter, billboard boy for multiple years in a row, a few sips past drunk in the privacy of his cramped studio apartment. A few hours later, they’ll relocate to a warmer area in Akira's apartment. A few hours later, they'll settle into a hazy, liminal silence. A few hours later, Tobio’ll whisper, “I’ll come back for you,” in his ear, and Akira’ll pretend like that means something—anything—more than the empty promise that’s hiding underneath. 

**Author's Note:**

> whatthefuckdidijustwrite


End file.
